


In Lace

by nogoaway



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Crossdressing, Fluff, Humor, Lingerie, M/M, Military Uniforms, flagrant assault on York's unquestioned heteronormativity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 08:31:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5532659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogoaway/pseuds/nogoaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>York had never, in the thirty-three years of his miserable life, been within eight yards of a lace teddy or a pair of fishnet stockings without feeling like he’d stuck his finger in a wall socket. It was just part of being a guy. He couldn’t help it. It was genetic, or something. The sheer mesh bikini panty was a timeless symbol of the survival of the human species, and York was powerless in the face of evolutionary imperative.</i>
</p>
<p>Or, York Snoops and Gets What He Deserves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Lace

“Rookie,” York sighs, waving the photographs at him. “This is what I mean. Now this, _this_ is a _woman_.”

Wash coughs. “What– where did you even get that?”

“South’s locker,” York says, too drunk to bother hiding his little hobby. Everyone knows he snoops anyway, or they would know, if they paid any attention. Not his fault certain people don’t keep a close eye on their personal belongings. “All the way at the bottom, in a sweet little folder– oh, look at that. _Nice_.”

Wash leans over his shoulder. “It’s not South.”

Dear god, no. “Nuh uh.” York lays them out on the bar, the full series. “I said a– a _woman_. You know–” and he makes an hourglass shape with his hands, like he’s running them down her sides, like he can feel the smooth skin and the smoother silk. _Damn_. “A woman. It’s been _so long_ , dude.” 

“Apparently,” says the bartender, rolling her eyes. York gives her a pathetic look. The ‘I’m out fighting for humankind and this is how you repay me’ look. She seems unfazed.

“We work with women,” Wash points out, but he’s got his fingers on the panty shot anyway, the little sneak. York has his number. 

“We work with _jarheads_ ,” York corrects, sweeping the last photo up to the light. This one is his favorite, he thinks– black thigh highs topped with lace rosettes that end just under the soft, round curve of buttocks, black sheer panties cradling her ass, and a little birthmark just to the right of her spine. “Lumberjacks. I mean a woman who’s–” he sighs, longingly “soft. And warm, and smooth, who you can carry to bed and spend all night running your hands over her silky–”

Wash coughs again, and the bartender slams another beer down in front of York.

“Thank you, darlin’,” York slurs, and kisses the photo, right over that coy little mole. Forget spending all night running his hands all over her, he could spend a whole night just kissing that birthmark, making love to it with his lips and tongue–

“Buddy,” says the bartender, “If you start jerking off in here, I’m throwing you _both_ out.”

* * *

  
After York has dealt with his headache, and his dehydration, and has found his coat (the back of the bar bathroom door, which he didn’t remember even using), and they’ve all returned shipside to anticipate their leave hangovers, he sneaks back into the locker room to return the photos. Normally he wouldn’t bother, but when he thinks about it he has a kind of solidarity with South, who clearly understands the importance of soft, smooth women in lacy lingerie. South is a true bro whom York understands on a deep, personal level, and it would be wrong, it would be a violation of unspoken bro code, to deprive a fellow admirer of the female form.

Also, she’s scary.

Also, Wash made him.

* * *

  
“God,” Wash groans, rolling his shoulders and neck, stretching his arms behind his head “I can’t believe we have to go schmooze. I hate that bullshit.”

York shrugs, digging deeper into his locker for a dry pair of socks. He knows he has one. Okay, he doesn’t know, but he’s hoping. It never hurts to hope. 

“I didn’t realize you ranked,” North says, loudly over the sound of the shower “No offense.”

Wash doesn’t seem offended. “Yeah, I’m E-5. Not like it matters here, though.”

“Tell me about it,” York mock-grumbles, although he _is_ getting kind of annoyed about the sock situation. So far he’s retrieved a single sock. “I have to slum it with you noncom plebs when I went to school for this shit.” He doesn’t even know how that’s possible. He doesn’t remember ever leaving or entering the locker room wearing only one sock. Or three socks. _  
_

_Wearing any odd number of socks at one time could have resulted in this outcome_ , Delta informs him, as if York doesn’t know that, _although I suspect your current predicament was caused by your insistence on not pairing your laundered socks, and instead stocking your locker with a handful of them._

North laughs. “Watch it, Butter bar. Some of us earned our stripes by honest hard work.”

“Asshole,” York hisses, and finally gives up, seeing as he’s pulled practically all of his earthly possessions out onto the bench and the Coming of the Second Sock remains unfulfilled.

“Go ahead and repeat that,” North suggests, from directly behind him, and York yelps, avoiding banging his head on the locker by mere inches. 

“Nice one, Gunny,” Wash says, and York hears them high-five behind his head.

“I was talking to D,” York whines, knowing it’s pointless. “He was giving me crap about–”

“No, now you’ve started it,” and god damn it, that’s Florida from the row over, that sneaky little– “the class war. Or should I say the Brass War–”

“I have served at _least_ as long as all of you,” York lies. 

_That_ , Delta says, _is completely untrue_.

“Fast tracker,” Wash teases, and pokes him in the back. York reaches around to grab his wrist, and gets a towel to the face instead, courtesy of _Gunnery Sargent_ Lysenko.

“See,” York says, into damp terrycloth, “this is what happens when the chain of command breaks down. Anarchy.” He snatches the towel off. “This Project is a threat to the cohesion of the entire military establishment–” he cuts himself off. 

“Big words,” North chuckles.

North is turned away from him, stepping into his sweats. Without the towel he’s completely naked, and York is struck by the familiarity of the image, something about the long, pale shape of him against the dark gray titanium, something about the groove of his lower spine, a birthmark York has never noticed before, because why would he, he doesn’t go around staring at the guy in the shower–

Weird. York shakes his head vigorously and pulls on his one dry, lonely sock, and then his shoes.

North turns around and stares at York. Blinks. “You know,” he says, slowly and seriously, “this might just be a thing us grunts do, but I’ve found that I get fewer blisters when both of my feet have socks.”

“He went to school for this shit,” Wash says, and dissolves into snide laughter.

* * *

It’s hard to miss North in a crowd, even one full of people dressed exactly like him. The shear breadth of his shoulders sets him apart, and York spots him as soon as they walk in. 

North wears his dress uniform better than York does. Of course, North wears just about everything better than York does, because being that freakishly tall means he has to get his shit custom tailored, and the end result was suits that taper perfectly in at the waist, sleeves that skate just up to his thick wrists, and pants that break evenly over his (also custom-ordered) shiny black shoes. 

The pants are also… nice. They tend to fit him very well. York would be a little worried if they didn’t, given how fucking long North had spent in the fitting room with that guy and his tapes flitting around him– anyway. York makes do with the suit and pants that came in the dry cleaning bag they handed him on his first week, and they’re itchy and the sleeves are a little too long and the chest is a little too tight, but whatever, he barely ever has to wear the thing, and Delta had helped him get everything evened up and buttoned and smoothed right down to the millimeter, guiding York’s hands with complete executive control.

(“Couldn’t you have just. Done this with sewing?” York had asked, watching his fingers skitter down the front buttons with inhuman precision, every motion short and sharp and exact, “Like, made the pants shorter, at least? Hemmed it, I mean?” _I could have_ , Delta had returned mildly, H _ad you not left this task until the last minute. Stand straighter, please_.)

Speaking of Delta, the little asshole breaks in on York’s thoughts completely without warning.

_Agent York. If you are going to admire the fit of Agent North’s pants, I suggest you do so more discreetly._

“I am not,” York grumbles, going to stuff his hands into his pockets and finding them unwilling to move.

_You will rumple the suit. And yes, you are. At least move away from the middle of the room_.

“I’m not staring,” York hisses, and Carolina elbows him in the arm.

“Come on, York. _Quit talking to yourself_ and move it along.”

Right. Probably not a good idea to look like a crazy person at the Please-Don’t-Defund-Us function. 

York mimes zipping his lips, and moves it along. 

* * *

He absolutely, 100% does not follow North into the restroom. He just has to piss, is all. At the same time North does. 

And he really, _really_ needs to talk to a friend.

“I haaaaate this,” York moans, the moment they’re alone in the room. At least, he thinks they’re alone. He scanned the bottom of the stalls and didn’t see any feet. There was a guard or concierge or intelligence asset or something outside the door, who neither looked York in the eye nor saluted him on his way in. 

North zips himself up too hurriedly. “I’m sorry to hear that. I don’t think we need to stay much longer.”

“Ugh.” York takes the urinal at the end of the row, sufficiently far away from North to not look too desperate on that whole 'talking to a friend’ thing. Fuck. He really does need to piss. Too much horrible wine. He hates white wine.

_And yet, for some reason, you continue to consume it._

“I like to suffer.”

“I’m sorry?” North is at the sink, now, running his hands under the water. He shifts from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable. 

York cranes his head over further. North’s kind of red, now that he thinks about it. “Just talkin’ to D. Hey, you doing all right?” 

York had just assumed that North was used to this sort of shin-dig, or at least wasn’t too bothered by it. North had a lot in common with the people York seemed to get stuck talking to, in that they were all outwardly polite and engaging and yet seemed like they were simultaneously composing long internal monologues about what a colossal douche-bag York was making of himself. 

“Yeah, just–” North dries his hands, and then waddles awkwardly towards the stalls.

Oh. “Ugh, man, I don’t wanna wait here while you shit–”

The stall door slams, the lock clicks, and North snorts. “No one’s making you wait here.”

“But I wanna talk,” York whines, and zips himself up, letting Delta deal with re-aligning the fly and the button-hole and the lay of the vent. “Everyone here is boring and rich and D won’t even let me steal anything.”

North coughs, too late to cover up his laugh. “Well thank goodness for Delta.”

“Yeah, yeah.” York dries his hands and spares a glance at the stall. North’s feet are still pointing towards the toilet. “What, do you need me to leave?”

“Oh, just a second.” The leg of one pant lifts away from his shoe, there’s the soft sound of shuffling cloth, and York squints at the few inches of North’s left ankle visible under the door. He’s not wearing socks. Unless the military tailor’s started carrying fishnet men’s dress socks. “Needed to adjust.”

“Adjust–” York stares. Laughs, a little weakly. “Adjust what, dude, you get a wedgie?”

“Something like that.” North steps out of the stall, composed with all his edges even and he has very broad shoulders but also a very trim waist, now that York thinks about it. North tugs his sleeves down briskly on either side, over the gleam of his plain, masculine cufflinks and his plain, masculine watch. North is a plain, masculine guy. He’s like a template of ideal regular guy-ness. Short hair, muscles, tall. Protective. Chest hair. Shoots guns for a living. 

“Um,” York says. “Okay. You go on, then, I’ll just be–” he jerks his thumb at the sink. “Gonna make sure my butter bar’s on straight.”

North gives him a funny look, and then shrugs, and then he’s gone, out the door and past the mysterious door attendant, who, of course, salutes him.

York watches him go, framed in the doorway. Makes a familiar shape with his hands.

“No _way_ ,” he whispers. 

Fishnet socks. Eye must be giving him trouble again, is all.

* * *

After the shindig, because Director Church is nowhere to be found and the Counselor (somehow even more unsettling in a gray double-breasted suit and silver tie) had approached Carolina with the suggestion that perhaps the higher-ups had had _more_ than enough opportunity to meet and be impressed by the Project’s best operatives, (and could they _please_ leave, Wyoming already had a warrant officer crying in the bathroom about God only knows what and Maine had broken two wine glasses by setting them down on the table too hard), they all go to get drunk. 

That is, more drunk than they already were, because it turns out that most of them had taken York’s drink-it-until-it-tastes-better approach to that shitty Riesling.

“All I’m saying–” South whisper-shouts, waving a napkin at Maine like she’s trying to goad a bull into charging “All I’m saying is, if someone’s gonna go into my blackmail folder, if someone is gonna use my dirt, my hard-earned intel–” she burps softly, almost delicately “I want credit. I want acknowledgement.”

Maine pats her on the shoulder with what looks like incredible force. South braces her hands on the bar to keep from plowing into it. 

“All I’m asking for is a little acknowledgement,” she says, louder, shaking her fist “A little fuckin’ respect. ”

“I hear that!” Someone shouts from the booths, and someone else over by the tables whistles.

“You have a blackmail folder?” Wash wonders, his face flat on the bar. “What’s in it? Am I in it?”

“I won’t— I _shan’t_ tell you,” South insists, and Wyoming bursts into raucous laughter “I shan’t tell you, unless you promise–” and she pokes her finger into the center of Wash’s forehead, nail pressing in between his eyebrows “Unless you promise to tell _everybody_ that I collected it.”

“South,” Carolina sighs, into her glass of water. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Carolina has deep dark circles under her eyes and she’s probably the least drunk of all of them, York thinks. She doesn’t look like she’s having a very good time, either. Maybe those two things are related.

“I promise,” Wash says, very seriously. “I swear to god.”

“No gods,” South slurs, with equal gravitas. “No gods, no masters. Pick something else.”

Wash chews on his lip. “I swear– on my mother’s life.” 

South nods slowly. “Okay.” She leans over, as if to whisper in Wash’s ear, but she’s still talking at more than normal volume. “For _instance_. Butch reads sappy romance novels.” 

“That’s not a secret,” York points out.

South sniffs, loudly. “And he dog ears all the eating scenes.” She laughs. “Not the sex scenes, the scenes with _food_.”

“That’s weird,” York agrees. 

“It _is_.” South narrows her gaze at him, conspiratorially. “I think he has a _food thing_.”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” North contributes. He’s taken off his dress jacket and cuff links and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Bizarrely, losing the bulky uniform shoulders makes him look even broader. The shirt is tighter on him, York thinks. Maybe that’s it. “We all miss real food, sometimes.”

South scoffs. “Carolina has a whole drawer full of dicks.”

Carolina shrugs. “Didn’t hear you complaining,” she says, and takes a long sip of the water while North coughs and chokes, Wyoming whoops, and York feels the last remnants of an old dream die a miserable death somewhere low in his chest. Oh well. 

Wash’s eyes are huge and bloodshot.

“I think you broke him,” Carolina drawls, and sets the glass down. She’s smiling, just a little. 

South hums. “York breaks into people’s stuff–”

“Eh,” York says. “Guilty.”

“Not a secret,” Carolina and Wyoming say, simultaneously. 

North, though, is looking at York with an expression of dismay and betrayal. 

“Sorry?” York tries, attempting his best 'who, me?’ grin, and winding up with a drunken grimace. He never really found anything juicy in North’s stuff, unless you considered a little box full of baseball cards, a charm bracelet, a small stuffed turtle, and a smushed bullet casing 'juicy’. York had just taken it as evidence that North was a human being who had once been a smaller, younger human being, and had possibly even had a girlfriend.

“And North wears ladies underwear whenever he gets the chance,” South crows, waving her arm in North’s general direction. 

North sighs heavily, and sets his head in his hands. 

“And not novelty shit either,” South goes on, even louder. “I am talking quality lingerie. Real classy, sexy business-woman-in-the-boardroom leading the world with sheer stockings levels of class–”

“York,” Wash hisses. “York, hey, York.”

“–I am talking lace and silk and satin, people. This man, _this man_ right here, he has spent more cold hard cash on bralettes than I have in my thirty-four years of tit-having existence–”

“Me too, buddy!” comes a shout from the booth area, amid drunken whooping. 

“Yeah, you do you, man. That’s courageous. Respect.”

“York!” Wash is waving at him now, frantic. “York, I think that thing you showed me, remember–”

York slowly sinks down on his stool until he can fold his arms on the bar. Puts his head down. Closes his eyes. “Wake me when the nightmare is over,” he mumbles, into the damp, warm space he’s created for himself.

_I am afraid,_ Delta chimes, with a cadence that sounds like laughter, _that the nightmare has only just begun._

* * *

And oh, it was truly a nightmare, because York saw a _lot_ of North, a fact that he hadn’t really realized until the Unhappy Coincidence rendered him constantly, almost obsessively aware of North’s body in a room. The gym, the training floor, the mess or the hallway or the rec room, it didn’t matter– if North was within eyesight, or earshot, or tightbeam range, York’s senses went into overdrive like he was on some serious shit. He was in tune with North’s _vibes_. The hair on his arms stood up. His dick was a fucking homing beacon. 

It was weird, and the worst part of it was the mystery. Because North wore lots of things, he wore t-shirts and sweats, and his undersuit, and the MJOLNIR, and his tan camo BDU, and sometimes even a button-up shirt and slacks on weekends, and there was a distinct possibility that under any of those completely usual and uninteresting outfits, he was wearing sexy lingerie. York felt like he had x-ray vision, because he knew exactly where the thin straps of a bra laid on North’s shoulders under his MOI t-shirt, exactly how the swell of his calf distorted the weave of the nylon tights he was wearing under his jeans.

Or maybe he wasn’t, but as far as York was concerned the possibility of it meant that every interaction with North was somehow electrically charged, because York had never, in the thirty-three years of his miserable life, been within eight yards of a lace teddy or a pair of fishnet stockings without feeling like he’d stuck his finger in a wall socket. It was just part of being a guy. He couldn’t help it. It was genetic, or something. The sheer mesh bikini panty was a timeless symbol of the survival of the human species, and York was powerless in the face of evolutionary imperative.

_There is nothing intrinsically feminine, or intrinsically arousing, about a particular article of clothing_ , Delta says, one night while York is moping in the viewing room with a mug of cold coffee and a semi because North had stopped by and patted him on the shoulder, _You are attributing biological causes to a purely cultural phenomenon in order to absolve yourself of agency and thus responsibility for your sexual peculiarities._

“I can’t take you anywhere,” York complains. _  
_

_On the contrary. You take me with you everywhere you go._

* * *

“Okay,” York says to the mirror, for the third time in the last ten minutes. “Okay, North, buddy, pal, I need a word with you. Guy talk. Mano y mano. I may have done a thing. To you. I mean not _to_ you, not explicitly, but you were definitely involved. Peripherally. But see I wasn’t aware of that at the time, so–” The idiot in the mirror snaps his mouth shut. Lets out a soft, pathetic whine between his teeth. What a loser. This is going nowhere.

_I do not understand,_ Delta says, _why you are so invested in discussing this “unhappy coincidence” with Agent North. Surely discretion is the better part of valor._

“ _Because_ ,” York hisses, running a hand through his hair. “It’s _weird_ now. It’s not. Normal. With him.”

_And will alerting him to the problem make it less 'weird’?_

“I don’t knowwww,” York moans. “I just. I have to confess, dude. It’s eating me alive.” 

Delta says nothing to that, just waits for York to explain himself. Meaning he’s waiting for York to keep digging the hole. For some reason the little green bastard finds that endlessly entertaining.

“See, there’s like. An unspoken code of conduct, between bros,” York tries, and has to stop looking in the mirror, because the more he talks the dumber he looks, somehow “And it’s a sacred thing, D-man. It is a special bond. Of trust and shit.”

Delta hums, a low monotone. 

“And I have transgressed,” York continues “Although I was ignorant of that at the time.” He plops down on the toilet lid, stares up at the ceiling. “I have to tell him. I have to say 'hey man, I accidentally jerked off to a picture of you. Repeatedly. By accident.’”

“Wow,” Wash says, from the doorway. “Maybe not in those words.”

York lets his head fall back against the wall with enough force that he almost regrets it. Ow. “When did you get here? Why is this my life?” 

“Uh, two seconds ago? I can’t help with the other thing.” Wash does a nervous little dance on the tile. “Can you go mope outside? I have to pee.” He grins. “Unless you wanna watch. You know. Since you’re into that, apparently.”

York doesn’t even punch him in the face. _That’s_ how seriously he takes bro code.

* * *

  
“York,” North groans, reaching over to grab York’s wrist where he’s been rapping his knuckles on the desk. “Please stop.”

York’s free hand stops rapping. He turns to clicking his pen, instead. He’s jiggling his right leg up and down, too, but that’s entirely unintentional. “Um,” he says.

North sighs. Lets go of the wrist. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Nothing is wrong. Well, I mean, there’s a war on, but–”

North deftly snatches the pen out of York’s hand mid-click. York stares down at his empty fingers, bereft. “ _Something’s_ wrong. You’re never early for class.”

Which is true. North is almost always early for class, though. Thus, the plan.

“I have…” York sighs, and slaps his palms on his thighs. Okay. Let’s do this. “I have something to say to you.”

“All right. Shoot.” North leans back in his chair, laces his fingers together over his chest. He’s still holding York’s pen captive. 

York stares at the open buttons at the collar of North’s BDU shirt. If he’s wearing a bra, it’ll be right under where his hands are, thin, delicate lace cupping his pecs, brushing over his nipples–

“I’m straight,” York says, too loudly. 

North blinks at him. “I’m very… happy for you. Why? Is this a new insight?”

“No, I mean–” York waves his hands vaguely, thinking _help me_. “I don’t mean that.”

_You seem to be managing quite well on your own_ , Delta says.

“You’re _not_ straight?” North’s eyebrows knit together. “York, while I’m touched that you think I can help you on this journey of self discovery–” his mouth quirks up, that complete _asshole_.

“Nooo,” York moans. “Shut up. I found your pictures. I mean, South’s pictures. Of you.”

North clicks the pen once, and then twice, before folding it back under his massive dude hands. “What pictures? You know, we did grow up together. There are whole albums worth of pictures.”

“Not of you in lacy panties there aren’t,” York whispers, ducking his head down. “I mean. I don’t think there are, anyway. _Are_ there?”

North makes a stifled little snorting noise, swallowing a laugh. His lips twitch. “Not to my knowledge. You found her blackmail folder.”

“ _Yes_ ,” York says, leaning towards him and speaking rapidly. “Yes I did, and it was all from the back, right, so I didn’t realize at first– I didn’t think– I didn’t know it was you, dude, I swear to God–” 

“York. Breathe.”

“You have a mole,” York babbles, “next to your spine. And a tiny little waist, it’s weird, dude, do you _shave_?”

“I used to. If they’re the photos I think they are, I was about twenty one, so yes.” North shrugs. “I don’t bother anymore.”

“I– wait. You knew she had them?” 

“Not very effective blackmail if I didn’t,” North points out. “But it’s not a secret anymore, so what’s the point?”

York frowns. “You’re awfully chill about this.”

“You’re awfully upset.” North raises one practically invisible eyebrow at him. York’s not surprised he doesn’t bother shaving, he grows some kind of weird ghost hair. Sniper fur. “Are you here because you’re concerned about the state of my masculinity?”

York glares at him, mostly because Delta is making a mechanical, monotone laugh a la Gamma in the back of York’s head. “No.”

“Oh,” North says, and smirks. “So it’s about _your_ masculinity.”

York feels his face heat. “Look, dude, I am here to confess my violation of a central tenet of bro code–”

'Bro code’, North mouths, still smirking. 

York points at him. “Out of respect for you, my bro, I have come here, metaphorical hat in hand, to confess–”

“What are you in 'violation’ of, exactly?” North wonders. “The BYOB Protocol? The No Homo Accord?”

York sniffs. “You’re making fun of me.”

“You know, York, most cross dressers are heterosexual men,” North says, clicking the pen again, slowly. With each click his grin widens. York spies teeth. “Like you.”

“I–” York swallows. “Most?”

_Between 70 and 85 percent_ , Delta supplies _Studies are not consistent, which is to be expected with self-reporting a culturally sensitive phenomenon._

“Most,” North says, lightly, and walks the pen down his fingers, flipping it nib over end until he’s got the clip between his thumb and forefinger, holding it out to York. “Not all.”

Behind them, the door hushes open, and two sets of footsteps start down the walkway. York can hear Carolina talking in low tones, Maine grunting in response.

“York?” North wiggles the pen at him. “Class is starting. If you’re that bothered, we can talk about it later.”

York reaches up to take his pen back. “I just. I mean. Are you. _Now_?”

North leans even further back into his chair and slowly, deliberately, crosses one leg over the other. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

For the first time in his life, York experiences difficulty focusing on high-order AI theory.

* * *

“So Jeb goes out the back, right? Thinking no one will see him, but he’s wasted, man, like riding the space train levels of fucked up–” York makes some wavy motions with his arms meant to indicate 'on hallucinogens’, “and me and Riley are still up on the fire escape, and we hear this _screaming_ –”

“York,” North sighs, unhooking his pock-marked chestplate and dumping it into the Processing bin “Please no stories right now. Especially not the one we’ve all heard eight thousand times.”

“Come _on_ , man,” York whines, practically jogging in place, he’s so wired. “It hasn’t been anywhere near that many times, I haven’t even known you for long enough, even if I told you that story once every single day, and I don’t just go around telling _anybody_ my stories, you know, there is a _trust-building period-_ -”

North sighs. His left thigh-plate, also dented, clatters to the floor. “It sure feels like it.” He slumps down onto the bench opposite York, elbows on his knees. 

York can’t sit down. He’s too jumpy. Being shot at tends to do that to him. In the field it’s great, it’s like a shot in the arm, he’s fast and smooth and he swears to God sometimes it makes him _luckier_ , but once evac comes and the bullets stop flying he has trouble calming down. He doesn’t want to get out of the armor, he’s still in danger-mode. 

Also, he has a hard-on. 

So he talks. A lot. Helps him calm down. 

“Okay, okay,” North says, stacking his arm plates and rolling his eyes. “Tell me a story. Just… less about your hard-on, all right?”

“Uh,” York says, and feels his face flame. “I, uh, said that out loud. It’s not abnormal, you know, adrenaline, not dying, all very–”

“York.” North smirks. “Believe me. I’m _aware_.”

“Anyway,” York practically shouts to the ceiling “we were out on the fire-escape, with our feet up, right, so they couldn’t see us out the window, but the screaming down the street, and Riley, dude always had this rat-tail, right, and he leans over to hear better–”

North unzips his bodysuit neck to stomach, and York’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. 

“Go on,” North says mildly, shrugging one shoulder out of the neoprene and revealing the thin black strap of a camisole, spots of lilac fabric peeking out from under a black lace overlay. Then the other shoulder’s off, and he’s standing to peel the whole suit down, over a plain pair of matching cotton lilac panties. No stockings this time. It’s nice stuff, sure, but not like in the photos; not a museum piece. Just practical, everyday kind of underwear with a hint of sexiness.

“Um.” York says, around his dry, useless lump of a tongue. 

“Riley’s rat tail,” North continues, stepping out of the suit and spending a moment to turn it right-side out again, which York never bothers with, before folding it in half lengthwise and dumping it in Processing. “Or I’ll do it. One of the cops sees it hanging down in the window frame and tugs on it out of curiosity, and you both fall down the fire escape and spend the night in jail, while your tweaker friend, who actually caused the whole debacle, gets away scott free, but still has–”

“'The most terrifying night of his life’,” York finishes. “You’re wearing a cami.”

“I am,” North agrees, and strips it off over his head. “I also don’t chafe. You should consider it.” He folds his arms over his bare chest, and stares York down from across the room.

York’s traitorous hard-on pulses in his (admittedly uncomfortably dry and constricting) neoprene. He swallows. He is absolutely, 100%, not looking at North’s crotch. Not even a little. At least, he’s not, until he is, and it’s really–

Not as horrific as he was anticipating. At all. He had expected that seeing a dick stuffed in there would look unnatural, or at least unappetizing. The whole thing about panties was, presumably, that they were so closely associated with lady parts, and sex with ladies, that York’s dick was unable to tell the difference (or, at the very least, didn’t care). 

But, well, here was a perfectly plain, feminine pair of panties on a perfectly plain, masculine dude, and York isn’t put off. York is the opposite of put off. 

North raises his eyebrows. “This is really all it takes to shut you up? Lingerie?”

York swallows again. He should probably walk away or at least turn around to give North some privacy, but he can’t make his legs work. Probably because all his blood is in his dick. “Apparently,” he croaks.

“I’ll keep that in mind, then.” North chuckles, and turns back to the row of lockers.

York stares helplessly at the mole just to the right of his spine. North was definitely younger in those pictures. He’s thicker, now. More muscular. 

His skin still looks soft. York’s hands itch.

“So,” North says, stepping into a pair of frayed, baggy grey sweatpants and pulling them up, over the panties. It doesn’t matter. York knows they’re there. “Since I’ve got you here. If you ever go through my things again, _bro_ –”

“Uh,” York says.

North drags on a green tank, making his tags clink. “You’ll regret it. Say hi to Wash for me, would you?” He pads down the row barefoot and vanishes out into the hall without waiting for a reply.

“Sure,” York says, to the lockers. “Sure, yeah, I’ll. Do that.”

* * *

York does regret it. Immediately.

_This strikes me as highly inadvisable,_ Delta says, just because someone has to say it.

“And yet,” York mumbles, holding a low-rise burgundy silk thong in one hand and his mug of stone-cold coffee in the other, “you’re having a whale of a time.”

_Just because I find your actions amusing does not mean I approve of them_ , Delta lies, like the lying liar he is.

“Liar,” York tells him, gazing down at the otherwise unincredible and already familiar contents of North’s 'personal stuff’ box. “You’re enabling me. Enabler.”

_Surely if anyone is 'enabling’ you, it is Agent North._

“This is true.” North was the one who left the damn box at the foot of his bunk, unlocked and in plain sight. North was practically asking him to open it. North knew what York was like, he couldn’t resist. “Why, though?”

York had opened the thing, of course, expecting to find a fuck-off note or a stink bomb or something. Something to drive the point home. Instead there was the thong, carefully laid out on top of the jumble of cards and keys and the little stuffed toy, like a gift. 

_As much as it pains me to contemplate_ , Delta says, sounding neither pained nor contemplative, _perhaps he is… flirting._

York sets his mug down on the floor and stretches the thong out between his thumbs. It’s big. It would probably fit him. Definitely fits North. “Yeah, no. He’s just fucking with me.”

Delta’s silence feels distinctly unimpressed. 

“He’s fucking with me,” York insists. “This is a prank.” He rubs his fingertips over the silk, letting it slide like cool water though his hands. 

Still no comment from his enabler-in-residence. York’s thumb encounters a stiff patch at the front of the panties, about the size of a dime. He freezes. Surely that’s not–

No way. North wouldn’t come inside a pair of expensive underwear, he was too fussy. Even if he did jerk off over his underwear collection he’d have to take his dick out to do it, and York knew the guy. He was a neat freak. He wasn’t going to get a come stain on nice underwear, and even if he did make a mess he’d do his laundry right away, before it could set. 

But maybe it wasn’t come. Maybe it was _pre-cum_. Maybe North was wearing the thong in the field, or at the gym, and he got hard, so hard he was leaking, but couldn’t do anything about it until later, when he was alone. Maybe he was in class, and the silk felt so good on his dick he was rock hard under the desk, one hand in his pocket rubbing at himself just a little; North was uncut, pre-cum would foam on the head of his dick, gather along the ridge of his foreskin, drip out and moisten that cool silk, and North would know he was ruining the thong but wouldn’t be able to help himself, would just sit there pretending to listen to the Counselor drone on about melancholia when all he could think about was coming, about getting one of those broad, calloused shooter’s hands around his dick and pumping it good and hard until he blew–

Delta’s unimpressed silence takes a turn for the amused, and York yanks his own hand out of his shorts like a kid caught sneaking cookies from the jar.

“Shut up,” York says, preemptively.

Delta gives him the disembodied machine equivalent of an eyebrow raise, a little pulse of wry humor. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” York argues, desperately trying to force his eager dick down with the heel of one hand. It doesn’t help. It’s just making him harder. “It’s an organic thing. Hormones, and– and psychology and shit.” 

York’s psychology, at least for the moment, is completely occupied with the thought of kneeling between North’s legs under the classroom desk and sucking at the head of his dick through burgundy silk. Tasting him through the barrier, maybe, getting North and the fabric both in his mouth, hot and firm and musky–

York brings the silk up to his face. Sniffs. It smells like– 

Like gun oil.

“Motherfucker,” York breathes, as Delta stutters into horrible monotone laughter.

* * *

“Okay, so.” York slams his tray down on the mess table. The protein block jiggles repulsively. “Let’s talk about regret, and how I am full of it.”

“Good morning,” North says mildly, and carves off one gelatinous corner of York’s breakfast brick with his spoon. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

York stares across the table at him, haunted. North licks the bit of nutrient slurry off the spoon, very slowly. Then he flips the utensil over in his mouth and sucks idly on it, visibly running his tongue along the concave polycarbonate.

“So much regret,” York repeats, and kicks North lightly on the shin when he purses his lips around the spoon handle instead of responding. “Also, you’re terrible at this.”

North drags the spoon out of his mouth with a wet pop. “This?”

“Flirting,” York says, and to his delight (and, admittedly, relief), North blushes. It’s not a deep blush, just a little pinkness high up on his cheeks and around his ears. Just enough to tell York that North doesn’t really know what he’s doing, which is good because York doesn’t have the slightest fucking idea himself. “Listen. If you’re going to be this bad at flirting, you have to ask your best friend for help. It’s mandated. It’s in the code.”

North snorts. “It is, huh?”

“Yeah, 'each one teach one’, dude. Rule one: don’t do the spoon thing. No one actually likes the spoon thing.”

North leans back on the bench, glancing at York’s slightly tented shorts under the table. “Seems to have done the trick.”

“Rule two,” York says, too loudly. “Don’t take advantage of a guy’s thing for underwear. It’s not fair. We can’t help it.”

North raises his eyebrows. 

“Seriously, man.” York insists. “It’s genetic.”

“You know, York,” North says, and leans in on his elbows, getting right in York’s face.  His voice drops low and husky, and damn, York has _never_ heard North sound like that before. “I don’t like this code of yours very much. It’s pretty limiting.”

“Oh?” York asks, very carefully not looking at either North’s mouth (soft. damp. smiling.) or the pale, delicate skin of his throat.

“Yeah. Very… rigid.” North grins, clearly pleased with himself. “Discrete categories, strict rules of engagement. No room for someone like me.” He gets up on his knees on the bench and stretches out over the table, balancing on his hands. It brings his face even closer to York’s, so close York can feel North’s breath in his hair, puffing against his ear and cheek. “Or someone like you.”

York swallows. “Someone like me?” His eyes are leveled right at North’s chest, and with the collar of his shirt hanging open York can see all down his front. He’s not wearing a bra, it’s just North’s absolutely normal guy-chest, but it’s– appealing. There are several places on it that York would like very much to get his teeth into.

“A straight guy,” North breathes, close enough that his lips brush the shell of York’s ear “who thinks some not-so-straight thoughts at night.” 

“I might have–” York shivers, despite himself. It’s been a really long time, okay? A really long time since someone put their mouth on his neck like that, lips open just wide enough to mist damp air onto his skin. “I might have overstated that. A bit.”

“Hmm.” North’s mouth opens wider, and York feels the arc of teeth press lightly into the skin under his jaw, and North _sucks_ , not quite hard enough to bruise. “It doesn’t really matter. Either way, I’d be happy to join you on this journey of self discovery, York. One friend to another.”

“Either way,” York agrees, breathily. “Either way I’d, you know. Not mind. Having a friend for company.” 

Which is the point at which North leans too far forward, loses his balance, and falls chest-first onto York’s breakfast tray, crushing the protein block and splashing the both of them with foul-smelling nutrient slurry.

“Terrible,” York repeats, when he can speak though his own choked laughter. “You are _terrible_ at this.”

North smiles up at him from the table, his face bright red and a smear of brown protein paste on his chin. “Shower?” 

* * *

Four days, three loads of laundry, and so many brain-frying orgasms that York lost count later, the personal box shows up at the foot of York’s bunk. He opens it without hesitation. 

It’s all North’s usual stuff, except for an envelope on the top, which is labeled, in South’s slanting allcaps: _CANNOT UNSEE._

York shakes the photographs out onto the bed. It’s the original set, plus eight more photos. He knows they’re recent, because he recognizes the underwear, and because North still hasn’t shaved. 

North’s offered to shave. Maybe he will, at some point. But York kind of likes how furry North is, how York can run his hands down North’s stockinged legs and feel the crackle of stiff, stray hairs through the fabric. North’s a regular guy; rough and dense and smooth in a few places, but not like any woman York’s ever slept with. When York kisses down North’s spine, his chin tickled by a frilly waistband, North’s skin is soft, but he’s all steel underneath. And he smells like a guy, which it turns out York likes. A lot.

York can’t carry him to bed, but North’s straight-up picked York up and thrown him onto the bunk twice already, which isn’t the same thing but is still incredibly hot. 

York has kissed North’s stupid mole a total of forty seven times. He’ll probably lose count of that one soon, too.

They’re still working on the ‘go all night’ thing. It’s important to have goals.

Looking at the pictures together he’s not quite sure how he was ever fooled. But he guesses it doesn’t matter, really. 'Either way’, North had said, and that was him. Maybe that was York, too. Both/And. Either way. 

York smiles, and starts hunting around in his own gear for a safe place to store his newly acquired personal collection.


End file.
